Nothing But the Truth
by Kassandra Lorelei
Summary: What do you do with a bored Writer, a practically endless supply of Death Eaters and a large quantity of Veritaserum? Have as much fun as you want, of course! Disclaimer: I own nothing.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

"What is the meaning of this?" Voldemort struggled against the bonds holding him prisoner, "release me, I say!"

"Hmm..." the Writer pretended to think about it, "I think not, actually."

"Who are you? Why am I here?" He-Who-Was-Tied-To-A-Chair demanded, straining his neck to look around the strangely ordinary office he appeared to be in.

"I'm a Writer and I have nothing better to do," she replied, resting her feet on the desk she sat behind, watching with amusement as Voldemort grasped at his robes.

"Where's my wand, filthy Muggle?"

"It's quite safe," the Writer folded her arms, feeling for the first time in her life like a Bond villain, "you'll get it back when you leave."

"Little bit-" Voldemort spat, still attempting to throw off the chains and ropes.

"Tut, tut," the Writer shook her head in disappointment, interrupting his effort to swear at her, "I thought you would have paid more attention to what I just said. I'm a _Writer_. In this piece, I could make you do whatever I want. Be rude to me, and you'll regret it."

"I don't believe you, filth," he snarled.

With a sigh, the Writer turned to her computer, "Don't say I didn't warn you..."

She began to type and Voldemort felt all the chains, ropes and padlocks fall to the floor. Then came a strange sensation in his right arm, as it raised itself and slapped him in the face.

"Holy sh-!" he cried out as he made painful introductions with the floorboards. Almost immediately, he was pulled back into his chair and the bonds once more gripped his pale frame in place.

"Now," the Writer continued smugly, "would you like some tea?"

"T-tea?" Voldemort stuttered, "you kidnap me, blindfold me, take my wand and bring me here, all to offer me a cup of bloody _tea_?"

"No. I told you why you're here. I need something to write about, which is where you come in," the Writer explained as though she was talking to a particularly ignorant child, "it's courteous to offer someone a beverage when they visit. Now, would you like some tea?"

"Oh, very well," Voldemort sighed with exasperation, "but how am I meant to _drink _it, eh? You've tied me up so I can't move."

The Writer began typing again and he felt free enough to move his arms, but couldn't get out of the seat. He looked down, noticing his feet had been shackled to the floor. The Writer passed him a mug, which he took and gulped from.

"Tell me," the Writer began, "how much do you know about Veritaserum?"

"The truth telling potion," Voldemort replied coldly, "one drop and anyone will tell you anything...this tea tastes funny...what's in it?"

"Tea leaves, milk, Veritaserum, sugar..." the writer listed them all with a grin of satisfaction, before offering him a plate, "biscuit?"

"No thank you...wait a second," Voldemort looked thoughtful, "could you run just _one_ of those ingredients by me again? I thought you said _Veritaserum_...?"

"Well, I knew you wouldn't just _tell_ me any of your secrets, so I thought could use a little help."

A second passed, before his mouth began to run of its own accord.

"I'm a Half Blood! I was never good at Quidditch, even when I practiced and practiced, so I tried to make a potion to make me better, but instead I burned my eyebrows off! I had a blue teddy called Bubbles, right up until Seventh Year!" Voldemort endeavoured to clamp his mouth shut, to no avail, "I wear women's clothing in private!"

"Well, none of those are particularly...come again?" the Writer was stunned.

"You heard me! I wear women's clothing and I _like_ it!" Voldemort was sobbing by this point.

"Hold the phone..." the Writer whipped out a wand and smacked it against the side of his head.

"Ouch! That hurt!"

"Keep quiet and stay still," she ordered, pulling a long, silver strand from his temple. She threw open a drawer in the desk, took a vial and emptied the memory inside.

"What was that for?" Voldemort sniffed, rubbing the point where the wand had struck him.

"For my own amusement later," the Writer clarified. She dismissed him with her hand, "you may go."

Voldemort stood up, not knowing what exactly to do with his newly discovered freedom. But then he remembered something important.

"And my wand?" he hissed.

"Go through that door," the Writer pointed to the other side of the office, "you'll be back where you were, with your wand."

Voldemort snorted with contempt, and then turned. He opened the door, stepped through, and was gone.

Checking he was well and truly gone, the Writer chuckled to herself.

"Oh, boy, this is going to be _fun_!"

Taking up her wand, she waved it and a crack opened in the wall. A Pensieve slid out of it, onto the floor. She poured the memory from the vial, until it filled the bowl. Then, sniggering in anticipation of what she would find, she dove in.


	2. Girl's Night In

**Chapter 1**

**Girl's Night In**

"_It's as 'bout as bad as it could be,_" Voldemort sang, "_Seems everybody's buggin' me_..."

He danced in a circle to Shania Twain's deep, powerful voice belting from the CD player, picking up random bits of clothing strewn around the room which looked suspiciously like a bedroom in Malfoy Manor. It had a huge bed at one end, a wardrobe with the doors thrown open and a vanity mirror, with lights twinkling round the edge.

He perched himself on the stool, slicking on mascara and smearing rose-red lipstick where there should have been lips. He pouted at his reflection.

"I look so _hot_," he blew a kiss at the mirror and giggled like a schoolgirl.

He mixed and matched rings, a different colour stone on every bony finger, fixed on diamond and pearl earrings and slid bracelets up each arm, although his arms were so thin they slid up to his shoulders every time he moved.

"Now," he said to himself, "le piece de la resistance!"

He went to the wardrobe to change.

When he came back, he wore a lacy, black silk nightdress, which stretched uncomfortably across his chest, the straps hanging limply across his arms. It barely covered him, coming down to a few inches above the middle of his thigh. It looked as though it should be worn by someone a _lot_ smaller.

He posed, and the music still played. He waved to imaginary crowds, taking photos and cheering loudly.

"My Lord?" asked a dazed voice behind him.

Voldemort froze, a look of horror on his face. He turned slowly.

"Please don't let it be true," he wished, "please, please, please!"

If he had a look of horror on _his _face, it was nothing compared to the looks on the faces of Bellatrix and Severus.

"_Up, up, up, can only go up from here_-" Shania Twain was cut short as Severus clicked off the CD.

There was an uncomfortable silence, far too late broken by a realisation from Bellatrix.

"My Lord...is that...my nightdress?" she gulped, as though swallowing something unpleasant.

"Um...well, yes. I have a lot of your things, actually..." Voldemort went to the wardrobe, flung open the door and showed them. It was bursting with dresses, shoes, boxes containing hats and jewellery, too, "you can have them back if you want...?"

"No, no, please, keep them..." she seemed to beg.

Voldemort sat down on the bed, and his two servants averted their gaze and the nightwear strained to let the wearer sit. It rose unpleasantly. The Death Eaters understood that if they took away their commitment to staring at the wall, they would be blind by the end of the day.

"Oh! I...I don't suppose you want these back?" Voldemort walked over to his chest of drawers, opened one and took out a red pair of women's knickers.

This was too much for his most faithful servant. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she collapsed to the floor, out cold.

Taking her sudden departure from the conscious world as a resounding 'No', Voldemort turned to Severus.

Severus looked how he most likely felt – sick. But, putting on a brave face, he avoided tripping over Bellatrix and staggered out of the door.

"I saw nothing, my Lady-I mean, my Lord..." he gulped, closing the door behind him.

But, listening carefully, Voldemort heard the awful sound of Severus Snape throwing up violently over the floor.


	3. Wormtail's Secret

**Chapter 2**

**Wormtail's Secret**

The Writer sat back in her chair, quietly spluttering to herself after what she had recently witnessed, when there was a knock at the door.

"Hm?" it wasn't usual for someone to knock. Usually they burst in, or were dragged in, after being 'encouraged' by a friend of hers called Chloroform.

"Come in..." she called.

A ratty face appeared round the door. The most worthless, spineless Death Eater, Peter Pettigrew. He opened the door, pointing his wand at the Writer.

"You're a Death Eater and you _knock_?" the Writer laughed, "I would have thought you would have blasted open the door!"

"I wish to leave no evidence of a struggle," he rasped, wand still raised, "my Master has tasked me with ending your pathetic life."

Ignoring the fact that what he had just said was probably the worst case of 'the pot calling the kettle black' in the history of the known universe, the Writer just sat back and grinned.

"But why you?" the Writer asked, "why not Bellatrix?"

"She...still can't look at Him without crying."

"And Snape?"

"Has only just stopped throwing up."

Then, in a split second, the Writer hatched a brilliant plan in her mind. She beamed like a Cheshire Cat that had just got the cream.

"Where are my manners?" she smiled politely, gesturing with her hands to the chair in front of her desk, "please, have a seat."

Sensing no danger – even from the one who had made known to the Death Eaters that their Master was a transvestite – and took the seat.

"I suppose you don't get to do this sort of thing very often?" the Writer asked, faking intrigue.

"Well, not really, no..." Pettigrew was stunned, someone was talking to him without it being an order or a curse of some variety, "even less now that His _disciples_ are out of Azkaban."

"I don't often have people over," the Writer stood up from her desk and went to a shelf in the far corner, "I have a nice bottle of Chianti going to waste, do you want some? I'm not the kind of person who drinks, you see..."

"Oh, um..." Pettigrew thought about it, "yes, please."

Unstopping the cork and pouring a glass, the Writer came back and put it carefully on the desk in front of him.

"It's not often I'm allowed wine, or anything I would like, for that matter..." Pettigrew took a sip. Then a look of comprehension came over his face, "oh, no..."

The Writer smirked, "What's wrong?"

He slapped his hands over his mouth, but it didn't work.

"My favourite film is Titanic! I love to do the gardening!" he screwed up his face with the pain of forcing his jaws to shut, but they burst open again, "I'm in love with Lucius Malfoy!"

"Now _this_ I've _got_ to see!" the Writer once more removed the memory from the head of her weeping prisoner. She prepared to send him on his sorry way, but remembered something, if he went back with his memory, he would just come back to try and kill her again. She pointed her wand at him.

"Obliviate," she muttered.

So Peter Pettigrew walked out the door with no collection of telling anyone anything about the man he loved more than anyone in the world, and wondering why he felt slightly drunk.

The Writer, however, did know.

"Another trip to the Pensieve, I feel..."


	4. Hope Springs Eternal

**Chapter 3**

**Hope Springs Eternal**

Pettigrew sighed heavily, leaning his head on his palm whilst staring absentmindedly out of the window. He was coming today, to visit, to make plans. He would see him again and this time, maybe, just maybe...

No, he couldn't.

He walked away from the window and sat at his desk, going through the scrunched up bits of paper littered across its surface. Love letters, each and every one of them.

But they couldn't possibly describe him in all his wonderful, glorious magnificence.

"Oh, Lucius..." he sighed to himself, "why must you belong to someone else?"

Narcissa. She was in the way of their happiness together! Why, why couldn't Lucius see that he was meant to be with him, not her?

Pettigrew even dreamed about Lucius at night...

"_Peter, I have made a terrible mistake," Lucius' eyes pleaded with him, "I have left Narcissa for you. I will do anything for you!"_

"_Prove it."_

"_Run away with me tonight! We'll go somewhere no one knows us and begin a new life!"_

"_Oh, Lucius..."_

_They leaned in..._

And Pettigrew woke up.

Every spare minute he had – when not being ordered about by the others – he'd sit and write poems about his love.

_Your long golden hair_

_Ignites a fire in my heart_

_Your icy eyes pierce my very soul_

_And your voice calls to me_

_Like a saving grace_

_A warm fire on the coldest winter night_

_Or a lifeline as I drown_

_In this sea of heartbreak_

He kept small treasures in a chest at the back of his room, underneath a couple of loose floorboards. No one would find them there, no sir.

He was walking up the stairs one day, when he heard loud, obnoxious guffawing coming from his room. Pettigrew's heart began to race. Had he been found out? Had he forgotten to put something away?

He sprinted the last few metres, and opened his door.

Bellatrix, Greyback and Snape were gathered in his room. Bellatrix wielded a hefty looking crowbar.

"W-what are you doing?" he stuttered.

"Bella saw something suspicious under the floorboards at the back of the room," Snape's lip curled, as though he found it hilarious, but his face couldn't be bothered to show it.

"Yeah, so we've decided to dig it up, an' take a peek," Greyback grinned toothily.

They were going to find out.

"No, you mustn't!" he positioned himself between his precious letters and three of the most dangerous Death Eaters you could ever come across. It was the single bravest thing he had ever done in his life.

"Why, is it valuable?" Bellatrix cackled.

"It's _dirty_, is more like it!" Greyback replied loudly. An idea struck Pettigrew.

"Yes, alright, alright, it's porn!" he lied. Anything but them finding out about his dream of taking Lucius to the beach, splashing in the surf, and rubbing in suntan lotion...

"In which case, I have no desire to see anything Wormtail could...have fun to," Snape turned and left. Bellatrix followed closely behind, sticking two fingers in her mouth and gagging.

"What is it, then? _"Wonder Witches – the Christmas Edition"_?" Greyback slapped him heavily on the shoulder, "talk about Naughty or Nice, eh?"

Pettigrew chuckled nervously, praying the werewolf would take his alibi and go away.

"A bloke, just like the rest of us, eh, Wormy?" Greyback grinned at him, gave him another hearty slap and walked out the door.

Wormtail sighed with relief. No one had found out today. He hadn't brought up the courage to tell Lucius, either, but maybe one day he would. That day, Lucius would love him too, perhaps.

"Hope springs eternal," he told himself. He sat down at his desk and began to write.


	5. A Visit from Yaxley

**Chapter 4**

**A Visit from Yaxley**

The Writer congratulated herself on her magnificent work as she sat at her computer. A Death Eater and the Dark Lord himself! Who would she humiliate next, she wondered?

At that exact moment, there was a small explosion as the door burst open and Yaxley marched in, wand raised at the Writer. But instead of cowering and begging for mercy as he had expected, he was taken aback when the Writer burst out laughing.

"You have impeccable timing, you know that, Yaxley?" she wiped a stray tear from the corner of her eye.

"The Dark Lord wants you dead," he growled, "I'm more than happy to make that happen."

"Love to, Yax," the Writer turned back to the computer nonchalantly, "it's not going to happen, though."

"And why not, pray tell?"

The Writer sighed, leaning her elbows on her desk, "Does nobody tell you _anything_? I'm going to explain, like I explained to your Master. In this place, whatever I write is...well, let's just say if I wrote...I don't know... that you could sink through floors like _this_..."

With a few clicks of the keyboard, Yaxley dropped through the floor, up to his waist. He struggled, attempting to regain his footing.

"There's no floor underneath me!" he shouted, slightly panicking.

"Of _course_ there isn't, Yaxley," the Writer patronised, "there's another room underneath my office."

Yaxley was still attempting to climb out of the floor, so the Writer turned back to the computer.

"I think it's likely that the people downstairs will be sick of seeing your legs dangling by now..."

Yaxley was pulled by some mysterious force, back to his feet. This upturn in events was suddenly snatched from him, when his wand flew out of his hand and landed across the other side of the room.

"I'm not sitting down and drinking anything, if that's what you're about to ask," Yaxley snarled.

"That's your call," the Writer shrugged, "not to say that I can't...alter things slightly."

With another few taps at the computer, Yaxley was shocked to find himself turning, as though someone had grabbed him by the shoulders and swung him round. His right foot raised itself into the air and made him step forwards. Then his left foot, then right again, until he was at the shelf in the corner of the room.

"What are you _doing_?" Yaxley's voice was high with worry and it took the Writer's entire willpower to not laugh at the ridiculous position he was in.

"Altering things slightly," the Writer replied with a splutter.

Yaxley's arm raised itself and grabbed a small, suspicious looking bottle. Unstopping it, Yaxley's head went back and he threw it all down in one go. Replacing the empty bottle on the shelf he was frogmarched by invisible hands back to the desk, where he, too, spilled his guts on things he did in his private life.

"I cheated on my O.W.L.s! I never had a girlfriend, all the girls laughed at me because my name is..." Yaxley screwed up his face.

"What is your name, Yaxley?" the Writer asked.

"Leslie! My first name is Leslie, do you want to make something of it?" Yaxley scowled, "and I never wanted to work for the Ministry, all I ever wanted to do in life was be a ballet dancer!"

"I love my job..." the Writer took out her wand and pressed it to Yaxley's head.

Sending him away with a wiped memory and the slightly bitter taste of Veritaserum on his tongue, the Writer closed the door and rubbed her hands together.

"Three," she giggled to herself, "_three_ of them and so many still to come! I wonder...will I ever get bored...?"

Then she shook her head, "Of course not!"


	6. Requiem for a Dream

**Chapter 5**

**Requiem for a Dream**

"_No, Leslie," Mother shook her head, "you aren't going to a Performing Arts school."_

"_But, Mother..." Leslie twirled around his bedroom, "I love to dance! I could be good!"_

"_No, you're going to Hogwarts," Father told him sternly, "you're going to get good grades, and graduate. Then you'll follow in my footsteps, and work at the Ministry, like any worthy Pureblood man."_

"_But Father-" Leslie pleaded._

"No_ 'buts'," his father folded his arms firmly, "you're not going and that's final."_

_His parents left him in his room. The young Yaxley sat on his bed, angry and hurt. Couldn't they see that this was what he wanted to do?_

Yaxley shook the memory from his head, his wish as a child pushed to the back of his mind, simply a deep dark secret and a fervent hope that had never quite left. His parents were dead now. That would teach them for destroying his dreams.

Checking no one was in the corridor outside his room, he closed the door. The last thing he needed was people bursting in and seeing this.

He set the CD player in the corner to play his favourite piece – Eliza's Aria.

He changed into something he had bought online – no one needed to see him going into a shop and buying a purple leotard.

He took out his wand and moved the furniture to the sides of the room, stretched to get himself limber and began to dance.

He began with a pirouette, before leaping into the air. He moved gracefully, every step learned by heart, to the extent that he could dance in his sleep.

He was completely oblivious to the world, hearing only the music and unaware of the footsteps outside or the creak as his door opened...

But the peaceful atmosphere was shattered. He jarred to a halt as someone sniggered loudly behind him. He turned off the music and turned round, hands on hips. Greyback, Rodolphus and Bellatrix were there. The latter held a small portable Muggle video recorder.

"Smile for the camera!" she cackled madly, whilst the werewolf began to twirl around in a mocking imitation. Rodolphus just stood at the back, being ignored, as usual.

"What...? How...?" Yaxley felt faint and his cheeks reddened. Had they _really _just seen him doing all that?

"Come on, Yaxley, keep going!" Greyback roared, "you might get that part in Swan Lake yet!"

"I'm surprised to admit it, but I _like_ this piece of filthy Muggle technology!" Bellatrix seemed astounded, turning the camera in her hands, "it's like a camera, but it takes moving pictures _without magic_!"

"We found this thing called a 'website'," Greyback explained, "it was on the Muggle box thing with all the buttons! Muggles can use it to put these 'video' things on what they call the 'Internet'."

"It was great fun," Rodolphus joined in.

Everyone slowly turned to look at him.

"No one asked you, Rodolphus," Bellatrix snapped, "go put your head in the oven or something, I don't care."

"Yes, dear..." Rodolphus hung his head and shambled out of the room.

"Anyway, back to important stuff!" Bellatrix skipped out of the room, waving the camera, "this is going on that 'Internet' thing!"

Greyback followed after her, looking back with a horrible grin. Yaxley stood alone in the middle of the room, still bewildered about what had just happened. He blinked. They'd seen it, all of it. They'd seen _him_. They'd seen him _dancing_ in a purple _leotard_. What's more, they were going to show everyone.

That was when the screaming began.


	7. The Wolf's Bane

**Chapter 6**

**The Wolf's Bane**

The door caved in easily after Greyback gave it one or two hard shoves. He marched into the room, breathing heavily and picking up different scents everywhere. He went through the shelves, for no other apparent reason than 'just because he could'. Nothing of much interest, photographs that didn't move, books with strange titles, a video camera...

But the Writer was nowhere to be found, her computer sat unused at her desk.

There was one thing slightly out of place, though. In the middle of the desk was a black mug full of something strong smelling that he assumed was coffee. It was still warm.

Greyback – being, for one, quite thirsty, and for another, not quite the sharpest tool in the shed – took a large gulp from it. After all, it was only a suspicious looking mug with unknown contents in the middle of a stranger's office. What was the worst that could happen?

He replaced the mug on the desk as he found out exactly the worst case scenario. His mouth, just like all the others, went into overdrive.

"I like karaoke! I go every Friday night!" he slapped his hand over his mouth, checking that no one had heard him.

He was alone, so he assumed no one could hear him.

"That's right! Every Friday night is Karaoke Night down at the pub and I go along!" he shouted, "and no one is stopping me!"

"Hello, Greyback," muttered a voice behind him.

"Ah!" it was a new experience for Fenrir Greyback – to yelp.

The Writer skipped to her desk and seated herself. She looked into the mug.

"It's amazing, I don't even have to be in the _room_ anymore and you'll still do what I want," she chuckled to herself, "I am good, aren't I?"

"What'll stop me from killing you now?" Greyback jeered, "I have been ordered to kill you-"

"Just like Pettigrew, who I assume came back with no recollection of the entire incident," the Writer interrupted.

"Well, yes, but now the Dark Lord has ordered me-"

"Or Yaxley, who has been ratted out as a prancing ballerina."

"But I will _not _fail!" Greyback roared, "the Dark Lord has ordered your death! He has even thrown your worthless corpse into the deal, I reckon I could get a bite or two..."

"Not today, Fido," the Writer folded her arms, nodding towards the mug, "did that coffee _taste _at all funny to you?"

"I thought it was the Veritaserum...it _was_ the Veritaserum, wasn't it?"

"Well...yes and no..." the Writer replied, "I did put some Veritaserum in, which explains your little outburst just now, but I also put in a fair amount of a strong sedative, which should be taking effect right about..._now_."

Greyback swayed, wand arm raised in one last endeavour to kill the annoying little...

_Smack _. Greyback's enormous body collided with the floor.

The Writer took out her wand, took his memory and stored it.

"Brilliant," she complained sarcastically to herself, "now I have to move your ugly mug off my floor."

With a sigh, she waved her wand, "Levicorpus."

Greyback floated through the doorway left when he smashed his way in, out into the corridor and disappeared from sight.

The Writer turned around, noticing something out of the corner of her eye.

Greyback had dropped his wand, so she picked it up.

"Hmm..." she thought tilting her head either side as she did, "to keep or not to keep?"

"Ah, why not?" she asked herself, "it may come in useful someday."

So she took her prize and threw it into a drawer.

Then she sat back at her computer, giggling as she typed.


	8. Friday Night Fever

**Chapter 7**

**Friday Night Fever**

"Fenrir!" Derek, the landlord of the _Fox and Hare_, waved in his favourite patron, "we'd been beginning to wonder if you were showing up tonight!"

"No worries, Derek," Greyback seated himself at the bar, "you know I always turn up for Karaoke Night, unless it falls on the one night a month I have to...work."

"You mean you always turn up to get out of your face, grab the microphone and yell until we're all deaf," Derek pulled Greyback a pint, "then the rest of us who are sober chuck you out into the street."

He passed him the glass, "I'll add that to the tab, I take it?"

"You guessed right," Greyback gulped down the beer and turned to face the stage set up for Karaoke. A small audience was gathered already, one man at the back so obliterated by alcohol intake that he was laughing at the meat pie a nervous looking waitress had just served him.

"Well, my audience awaits..." Greyback rubbed his hands together. He leapt up onto the stage, gave the karaoke machine a kick to start it up and grabbed the microphone.

Meanwhile, somewhere outside, a man and a woman walked across the road, in the direction Greyback had come from. They both wore hoods, to mask their identities, even though they didn't really need to as it was pitch black outside and no one had heard of Lucius Malfoy or Bellatrix Lestrange in Carlton Road, Islington.

"Why are we here again?" Bellatrix merely sounded bored. She fiddled with the video camera she held in her hands, "and why do we need this? Because if this is to make some sort of sick porn film, I wouldn't do it for all the gold in this world."

"We're following Greyback," hissed Lucius, nodding towards the pub, "he went into that building over there. I brought you because you know how to work that damn Muggle device. If I knew, I wouldn't have asked you. We'll catch him in whatever secret meeting he's at and use this...camera thing as evidence to show to the Dark Lord that werewolves cannot be trusted."

"Oh...very well, then," Bellatrix didn't seem convinced, but she followed him inside anyway.

They took down their hoods as they walked in. They immediately wished they hadn't, as the most awful off-key singing blared from the corner of the room. Lucius turned to go to the bar, but Bellatrix pulled him back by his jacket sleeve and pointed at the stage, stifling cackles.

There, swaying to the tune of _We Are the Champions_, was Greyback.

"_And we'll keep on fighting to the eeennnd!" _he slurred into the microphone, "_we are the champions, we are the champions, no time for losers, 'cause we are the champions...of the _world!"

Lucius, startled by what he had just seen, took about a second to decide he needed a drink, so he walked to the bar. He sat down and Derek walked up.

"What would you like?"

"Firewhiskey," Lucius replied.

"Um...what?" Derek barked a laugh, "we don't serve that brand, sorry, mate."

"Just any whiskey then," Lucius' voice became sharp, then he mumbled to himself, "I think I'm going to need it tonight."

Raising his eyebrows at the peculiar customer, he nodded over to Bellatrix, who was busy filming Greyback swagger around and almost fall of the stage, "Anything for your lady friend?"

It was Lucius' turn to laugh, "The last thing my sister in law needs is alcohol."

"Fair enough," the woman did look a bit...off as it was, in Derek's opinion. He served him his drink, "anything else?"

"No," Lucius snapped, downing the whiskey, even though it burned his throat.

"Bella? Lucy?" a drunk voice called through the speakers, "whaddaryou doing 'ere?"

"We've come to see what you were up to, Greyback!" Lucius yelled back.

"I've got you on video! You're going on the Internet!" Bellatrix jumped up and down like an excited child, waving the camera.

Greyback froze for a few seconds, then jumped off the stage and ran down between the tables, pushing people out of the way as he went. He wrestled the camera from Bellatrix, pushed open the door of the pub and fled outside, Lucius and Bellatrix hot on his heels.

They got to the pavement, when Greyback began a run up, adopted a Superman pose and leapt off the kerb.

"I can _fly_!" he cried, but instead of zooming away as his inebriated mind had foreseen, he slammed painfully into the road.

Rolling their eyes, Lucius and Bellatrix hoisted the werewolf, each carrying him either side by lifting him under his arms.

"You know...you're my best friend, you are..."he smiled sheepishly at Bellatrix and then he turned to Lucius.

"I...I think you're beautiful," he grinned, showing what was left of his teeth, "I'm in love with you..."

Then there was uncomfortable silence. Before Greyback slapped himself in the forehead.

"Wait! Other way round, other way round, I meant those things that I said just now..."

"Not much better..."Lucius muttered to Bellatrix, who simply pulled a face.

"No more Karaoke Night for him, deal?" she asked, to which Lucius simply nodded.


	9. Confessions of a Teenage Rich Boy

**Chapter 8**

**Confessions of a Teenage Rich Boy**

The Writer flicked over the page of the Daily Prophet, scanning the articles. Nobody had turned up recently and she was feeling bored. Had they given up, at long last?

The door burst wide open, revealing a panting Draco Malfoy, seemingly exhausted.

The Writer folded up the paper and put it down on the desk, "What's wrong with you?"

"Lift...broken...took stairs..." Draco gasped, falling into the chair opposite the desk.

The Writer stared at him, "You're a _wizard_, you know."

Draco slapped himself in the forehead, muttering a phrase that rhymes with "ducking fell".

"No, seriously, you could've Apparated, or used a broom..."

"Shut...up," Draco growled between breaths.

"Or you could've got your wand out and even fixed that lift..."

"I said..._shut up_!" Draco yelled, catching his breath, standing up and taking out his wand, "I'm not very good at this!"

"I can see that," the Writer replied, "now, what do you want, you whiny adolescent?"

"The Dark Lord wants you dead."

"Yes...tell me something I don't already know, or I'll throw you out of my office," the Writer leaned forward on her desk, elbows resting on the surface.

"I'm here to make it happen," his face was determined.

"Aw, is wittle baby Dwaco gwowing up to be a murdewer," the Writer put on a mock baby voice, "just like his dear Auntie Bella?"

"You leave my family out of this!" Draco shouted, "I'm here to end your life. You got Wormtail, Yaxley and Greyback, but now the game is up. You're not getting me."

"How can you be certain I haven't already...as you put it...'got you'?" the Writer polished her nails on her shirt absentmindedly.

"What are you talking about?" Draco lowered his wand slightly.

"We Mudbloods, as you call us, have one advantage," the Writer smiled, "we have the knowledge of both magic _and_ technology."

"...Excuse me?"

"Didn't your mother ever teach you it was bad to drink out of a glass that wasn't yours?" the Writer shook her head, "you remember as you were huffing and puffing your way up the stairs when you so _easily_ could've found another alternative, you drank from a glass of water, left perched innocently on the stairs."

"You mean..." Draco looked panic-stricken.

"Oh, yes..." the Writer turned to her computer, "and I can access the building's security cameras, too. I have your little...confession, right here on my screen."

She turned the screen round, so they both could watch.

On the screen was Draco, coming up a flight of stairs, coughing out breaths. He slumped into the wall, seating himself on the step. Then he looked up. Just above him, on the next step, was a glass of water. Well, no one was around, and even if there were people about, so what? He was Draco Malfoy. He took the water and gulped it down. He was fine, for about five seconds.

"Every time Malfoy Manor is empty, I have wild parties with the local Muggle teenagers!" he yelled at the top of his lungs, "and I've even got lucky a couple of times!"

The security video ended and the Writer turned the screen away from him.

"Oh, naughty, naughty Draco..." the Writer taunted, "Mummy and Daddy aren't going to be pleased, are they?"

Before Draco could even say 'Avada', the Writer had whipped out her wand.

"Petrificus Totalus!"

Draco's limbs snapped together, as though he stood to rigid attention The Writer could have sworn he whimpered as he fell backwards.

The Writer prepared her vial and took the memory.

"What's that?" she pretended to have heard him say something, cupping her ear and moving closer, "'your father will hear about this'?"

If Draco could have glared, he would.

"Maybe he will, maybe he won't," the Writer smiled happily, "but for now, he won't, unless you want him to find out about the real reason that 5th Century tapestry has a tear in it, or why that vase from China has a chip missing from the rim?"

The Writer waved her wand, lifting him off the floor and sending him out and down the stairs.

"If any more of your half-crazed, bloodthirsty, snake worshipping relatives want to come round for humiliation and defeat through a type of person they loathe, tell them they know where to find me!" she called after his floating form, waving as it turned a corner and disappeared out of sight.


	10. Party Time!

**Chapter 9**

**Party Time!**

"Be good whilst we're gone, Draco," Narcissa placed her hands firmly on her son's shoulders, before giving him a hug and a kiss, "we shouldn't be long, a few hours at most."

Draco mumbled something into his mother's shoulder, whilst rolling his eyes when neither of his parents could see.

The minute they were gone and Malfoy Manor was empty but for himself and the House Elves, Draco snapped his fingers. A small elf appeared and bowed so low its nose scraped the ground ever so slightly.

"Master Draco sent for Mally?" it squeaked.

"Yes, prepare food and alcohol," Draco ordered, "lots of it. Get the other House Elves to bring it up, and then I want all of you to stay out of sight for the next few hours. Don't come out until I tell you."

The Elf bowed again and Apparated away.

Draco went upstairs and locked all the doors to all the private rooms, his mother and father's room, the rooms used by other Death Eaters, rooms for meetings, his Aunt's room...Oh, God, what would happen if _she_ came in and there was someone in her room? It didn't bear thinking about, so he locked it too, tempted to put a sign on the door reading "Danger, Stay Out".

Then, he went to his own room and locked his wand in a box, which he hid under his bed. He didn't like leaving it, but it couldn't be helped.

He took a mobile phone from his pocket and dialled in a number. He held it to his ear.

"Hello? Hey, Matt," he greeted someone the other end, "listen, my parents are out tonight, so I have the Manor to myself. Get everyone together and come over, I've got food, drink...yeah, yeah, bring as much as you want, we can get wasted. Alright, see you soon."

In about twenty minutes, a large crowd of people were gathered at the gates to Malfoy Manor, all of them screaming and shouting and quite a few drunk. Draco opened the gates for them and they rushed inside.

Draco greeted his friends – which made up a small minority of people he could actually see. It seemed Matt had invited people, who had invited people, who had invited people and so on and so forth.

They all went inside, where it was like a rave on a good night in Ibiza. People were dancing, drinking, doing both at the same time...people were even dancing on the tables!

An hour or so later, Draco sat doing shots, a girl either side of him and one on his lap. Matt had collapsed onto the floor, bizarrely proclaiming his love for bacon.

"Come on, Matt, get up..." Draco nudged his friend with his foot, causing Matt to squirm and groan, "you can have bacon later. Now...we drink!"

"Why should we drunk if you're already drink?" Matt sat up, swaying.

"'Cause...uh..." Draco blinked, willing his mind to remember, "it's fun?"

Matt slapped himself on the thigh, grinning inanely, "That's a terrific reason!"

Two giggling girls entered the room.

"Draco..." they crooned, "your parents are here..."

Oh, no. Draco shot out of his seat, launching the girl in his lap onto the floor.

He staggered to the door, where his parents were stood there, looks of horror and disgust on their faces.

"Hello, Mother, hello Fa...Fa...Father!" Draco greeted them, putting an arm around them both.

"The house is ruined..." Narcissa's lip wobbled.

"There are _Muggles_ in it..." Lucius added. He sounded angry, rather than upset, "Draco Lucius Malfoy, what have you done to our _house_?"

"Um...I'll explain, in a little while..." Draco stumbled away from them, tripping over his own feet once or twice, before vomiting into the pot that held a bonsai tree.

Just at precisely the wrong moment – although he didn't know it – Matt wandered in, clutching a bottle of Firewhiskey in one hand, and a laughing blonde haired girl in the other.

"Draco, ease up on the shots, alright?" he patted his friend on the back, swigging from the bottle. He spotted Lucius and Narcissa, then, with all the confidence in the universe, spoke to them, "you must be Draco's parents. Nice to meet you and all that stuff, but where do you get this _whiskey_?"


	11. The Bigger They Are the Harder the Fall

**Chapter 10**

**The Bigger They Are the Harder the Fall**

The Writer was beginning to get a flair for this Almost-Being-Killed-But-Not-Quite stuff. She watched with interest as the security camera's picked up Lucius Malfoy, marching up the stairs – for crying out loud, were they wizards or not? Why didn't they just fix the lift, or at least find a more imaginative way of breaking in?

But that wasn't her problem, it just meant that in the end they were predictable, which made things easy.

Lucius was now on the right floor, the stairs only having slowed him down a little.

The Writer rubbed her hands together. All the pieces were simply _falling_ into place!

The door burst open and Lucius swaggered into the room. But he took a step inside and a rope wrapped itself around his ankle, so he was left upside down, swinging from the ceiling. He struggled, but it just made him sway like a pendulum.

"Lucy!" the Writer cried, clapping her hands together, "it's so good to finally meet you at last! I believe you know I've already met your son...?"

"Yes, I do," Lucius spat, "you informed us of his..._soiree_ the other night. By leaving us a fake owl message, which left us stranded in the middle of the Savoy Hotel in London. We had to pretend we were going to the theatre there to look normal."

"Not a nice evening?" the Writer pouted.

"It was _Legally Blonde: The Musical_," Lucius replied, "Narcissa loved it."

"Doesn't it give you a happy, jolly feeling inside, though?" the Writer grinned.

"Well...a little..." Lucius shook himself out of it, "that's not the point! Now let me down so I can kill you!"

"Actually, today I feel like playing a game," the Writer turned to her computer. Typing something in, a table with two vials on it appeared in front of Lucius.

"And what is this?" Lucius quirked an eyebrow.

"Your way out," the Writer nodded towards the vials, "or my next chapter. One contains a Transporting Potion, the other has Veritaserum in it. The one you pick is up to you."

"And if I don't pick?"

"Either I pick for you, or I leave you up there to rot until I'm sick of the sight of you," the Writer explained, "whichever takes my fancy at the time."

"Alright, I'll take that one!" Lucius pointed at the small purple vial on the right, "anything to get me down!"

"Ah!" the Writer nodded, "good choice."

She handed him the vial, giving him credit for being able to down it upside down. She wondered how he had learned to do it, but then shook her head, desperately attempting to rid her mind of the filthy images it produced of its own accord.

"Oh, did I say "good choice"?" the Writer pretended to think, "I meant to say "good choice if you want to become my next chapter"."

Lucius began to shake, whether because he was angry or because he was so determine to not share his secrets with anybody, the Writer couldn't tell.

"I like teddy bears!" he blurted, "I like teddy bear tea parties! I have them all the time with my bear collection!"

"Why does this actually _not _surprise me?" the Writer took his memory, quite proud of the collection she was mounting, "by the way, you know I said that one vial had Veritaserum in it?"

"Yes..."

"Well, actually, _both_ had the Transporting Potion in it," the Writer paced in front of him as she explained, she glanced at her watch, "which, if my calculations are correct..."

Lucius began to fade. The Writer waved at him as he grew fainter and fainter.

"See you never!" she sang.

"I'll get you, you little-" Lucius vanished, leaving the rope dangling from the ceiling uselessly. The Writer hugged her arms gleefully.

"Oh, I am _so _going to enjoy this..."


	12. High Tea

**Chapter 11**

**High Tea**

"Would you like another scone, Sir Humphrey?" Lucius offered a plate of imaginary pastries.

There was no reply, for Sir Humphrey de Fluffsy-Teddington was a small stuffed brown bear. Lucius delicately lifted another "scone" and placed it on the small china plate in front of him. He then turned to the other "guests" at his table, all of various sizes and colours. His entire teddy bear collection, a group of friends not even Narcissa knew about. If she did, she'd obviously tell her sister, then he'd never hear the end of it.

"More tea, anyone?" he lifted a completely empty teapot, offering it to the small blue bear on his right, "Mr Berry, your cup is almost completely empty, you should have _said_ something, dear fellow! Let me refill it, there's a good chap."

After he had "refilled" the bear's cup, he took a look in the pot and gave a sigh.

"We're fresh out of tea, bear – forgive the pun – with me, ladies and gentlemen, whilst I get some more," Lucius turned away from the table, "Dobby!"

With a _crack_, the small House Elf appeared, bowing low.

"Master sent for Dobby?" he muttered.

"Yes, fetch us another pot," Lucius handed the one he held to the confused Elf, "we're completely out of tea."

Dobby took a look in the pot. The Elf blinked, not only was the pot made of flimsy plastic, therefore, most likely unable to carry tea, but it didn't smell like it ever had tea in it and there were no stains to suggest it had ever held tea. The Master wanted Dobby to go away and bring back another completely empty pot?

Dobby scanned the table the Master was sat at. There were no humans there, only stuffed animals that Dobby had seen children play with before. That made no sense, the Master was no child and certainly didn't play...

"Do you understand, Dobby?" Lucius asked, "bring us another teapot."

"Yes, Master..." Dobby turned away, so no one could hear him, "the Master has gone mad..."

He Apparated away and Lucius turned back to the table.

"He won't be long," he told them.

"_That's a relief, I'm almost out of tea!_" squeaked a voice.

"Ah!" Lucius jumped, almost falling backwards out of his chair. He glanced around, but no one was there. He shook his head.

"I must have been imagining things," he reassured himself.

Dobby Apparated back into the room, a tray balanced in his hands, Lucius flinched slightly, before realising it was only the House Elf. He set it down on the table, before turning to Lucius.

"Will that be all the Master requires?"

"Yes, for now," Lucius dismissed him, "you may go, Dobby."

The Elf left again and Lucius was alone. He chatted absentmindedly to his friends, about the weather and the state of politics these days.

"That is a lovely gown, Miss Susie," he gestured with his hands to the pink ball dress worn by a honey coloured bear opposite him.

"_Why thank you, Lucius,_" the voice spoke again, "_I got it in a sale!_"

With a loud scream that some say could be heard as far as 15 miles away, Lucius leapt from his chair, bolted down the stairs and into the garden, where Narcissa found him cowering under a rose bush.

If, however, he'd taken time to look, Lucius would have noticed the gap in the not- completely-closed wardrobe door, where the slight glint of the lenses of a video camera could be seen in the light. If he hadn't screamed so loudly, he would have heard Bellatrix's mad cackle and if he hadn't run off so quickly, he would have seen her climb out of that very wardrobe, video camera in hand and head towards the computer.


	13. The Last Memory

**Chapter 12**

**The Last Memory**

The Writer hummed a tune to herself as she sent out invitational emails. She'd conquered the Death Eaters, so now she was going to celebrate. Good Firewhiskey and good company. Plus a few of the memories she'd collected over the past few days. Then it would be a _real_ party.

Her little melody was silenced by the loudest explosion she'd ever heard. The Writer ducked beneath her desk, avoiding the debris scattered across her now mostly destroyed office.

She peeked over the – thankfully intact - desk, dust rising from the rubble that used to be part of the wall. The door lay broken into splinters on the floor, having been blasted away. The shelves were in disarray, the books ripped and torn to pieces, littering the floor, photographs smashed, glass shards shattering as they fell and the video camera a useless hulk of sparking metal and plastic.

In the middle of this chaos stood a very scary – and extremely angry - woman. The Writer immediately brightened up. Despite the damage, this had actually made the day even better. She sat back on her chair, leaning her feet on her desk.

"If it isn't my favourite homicidal killing machine!" she greeted Bellatrix Lestrange as though she were a sister she hadn't seen in a long time, not a rage-fuelled murderer.

It almost took the loyal Death Eater by surprise, but she composed herself and pointed her wand at the annoying little twerp sat before her, grinning like she was so important. What made a filthy Mudblood so bold? She'd show that Writer, that would teach her for telling everyone her beloved Master liked women's underwear!

"The Dark Lord has granted me an opportunity to kill you," Bellatrix snarled, "I took it at the very first moment!"

"I don't think you did, Trixie," the Writer snatched up a sheet of paper, grabbed a pen and scribbled something down.

"_Don't_. _Call_. _Me_. _Trixie_. _You_. _Filthy_. _Mud_. _Blood_!" Bellatrix shouted. The Writer ignored her, continuing with her writing.

The rubble on the ground shook, fitting itself back into the wall. The books sewed themselves back together, slotting themselves into the shelves. The glass covering the photographs put back together like jigsaws. The video camera gleamed, as though fresh from a shop.

"Right, that's better," the Writer looked up, "I thought you liked my little set up? It gave you a new insight to Muggle technology. It gave you a chance to humiliate Lucius..."

"Tricks," Bellatrix snapped, "all of it. All used to get someone on your side!"

"I don't need people on my side," the Writer replied, "if I did need a powerful Death Eater on my side, I wouldn't have unveiled your Master's...what shall we call them...preferences?"

Enraged, Bellatrix raised her wand.

"Not so fast," the Writer jotted down another note and Bellatrix's wand flew from her hand, landing in the corner. She went to retrieve it, but slammed into something. The Writer laughed without shame as she watched the Death Eater try to figure out what was keeping her from reaching her wand. Bellatrix pushed at what appeared to be open air, but bounced off.

"Oh, invisible walls are fun to write about..." the Writer sighed happily, folding her arms, "right, we're now on level playing terms. I haven't got my wand, you don't have yours."

Bellatrix turned back to the Writer, snorting with fury. Her eyes bulged slightly, dark eyes piercing.

"You think I need a _wand_ to kill you?" she spat, "I'll simply have to do this a Muggle way. I'd prefer not to, but needs must when-Ah!"

She shrieked as the cage bars fell down and the door slammed shut. A huge padlock clicked into place. Bellatrix rattled the door, but it wouldn't budge.

"Let me out right now," she ordered, tugging on the padlock.

"No," the Writer simply said, folding her arms, "instead, I'm going to present you with a choice."

"A choice? I have no time for games, filthy Mudblood."

"Games? This is the difference between you leaving with your dignity intact or not," the Writer presented her with two vials. Both were identical, the same colour liquid, each with a key in the bottom, "pick one. One contains the key to your release and pumpkin juice, the other vial contains a fake key and a mixture of Veritaserum and a Transporting Potion."

"This is what you did to Lucius, isn't it?" Bellatrix asked.

"Very observant, aren't you?" the Writer asked, "I was out of ideas."

"But, you're a Writer, aren't you supposed to have an imagination?"

"Shut up and pick."

"Alright," Bellatrix grabbed at the vial in the Writer's right hand. She unstopped it and downed the liquid, grabbing at the key as it fell out. She tried it in the lock.

It didn't fit.

"I didn't think that tasted like pumpkin juice..." Bellatrix clamped her hand over her mouth, but, like the others, it was a vain attempt, "I'm in love with the Dark Lord!"

"What else have you got? Practically everyone knows that one."

Bellatrix's face morphed into a scowl, "I have coulrophobia."

"You're Bellatrix Lestrange, and you're afraid of _clowns_?" the Writer laughed, "I'm sorry, I find them creepy too, but...you're Bellatrix Lestrange!"

The Writer took her memory before Bellatrix began to fade. As she did, she shouted curses and profanities, promising revenge, some day.

"That'll be the day I dress as Pennywise for Halloween," the Writer chuckled to herself, "even if it's the middle of May."


	14. Send in the Clowns

**Chapter 13**

**Send in the Clowns**

"Right, everyone," Voldemort addressed his assembled minions from the head of the table, "I am sending you on a recruiting mission. There is a powerful wizard by the name of Hans Hermann travelling the country as part of a troupe of performers in the Cirque de Lune. They are currently based outside of London, go and present our...offer to him. If he refuses, kill him. The last thing we need is a powerful wizard on the side of the Order."

Bellatrix's heart skipped a beat. The Master was sending them to a circus? With animals and music and...clowns? Her palms began to sweat and she began to shake violently. She gulped, breathing heavily. She wouldn't go near one of those _things_, she'd sooner die!

The others had begun to notice her odd – well, odd for Bellatrix – behaviour.

"Bella, is something the matter?" Narcissa placed her hand on her sister's shoulder.

"No, nothing at all!" Bellatrix laughed nervously, "what could possibly be wrong? The Master has given us a task, I intent to carry it out! There's nothing wrong with that, is there? Of course not..."

She rose out of her chair and strolled out of the room, still muttering to herself. Everyone shrugged their shoulders at each other. It was _Bellatrix_, what more could they say?

Le Cirque de Lune was set up in a field, not far down the road from Hampstead, in London. Everything was ready and set to be a splendid evening. People were lined up, grasping the fingers of over-excited children, eager to go in.

The peace and harmony was ruined by the entrance of a group of people, one of them secretly hyperventilating into a bag when the others weren't looking. The Muggles, oblivious to the danger they could be in, grinned at the new arrivals, believing them to be performers. They were dressed so strangely, what else could they be?

Lucius, Greyback, Rodolphus and Bellatrix – tucking the paper bag back into her robes – shoved passed the people queuing to get in. A few scoffed as they passed by them and went in.

"Well, I never!"

"I certainly won't be coming to _this_ circus again!"

"They almost pushed my son over!"

"These circus people, no respect, I tell you. They think they're better than everyone else!"

The Death Eaters ignored these comments. Usually, the remarks made would mean a full scale massacre, but not tonight.

Everywhere was being set up for the night's performance. Three of the Death Eaters made their way to the middle, scanning around for any sign that one of the men they could see was Hans Hermann.

One, however, stayed exactly where they were, frozen with fear. She fumbled for the paper bag again, not sure if she was going to breathe into it, or throw up.

Down in the centre, where the others were heading, was a mass, no, a _horde _of clowns. Faces made up, costumes all prepared. Bellatrix felt faint, she had to get out of there, quickly, or she wouldn't make it out alive. She could feel them growing closer, until they were right behind her, laughing, sharpening knives and axes...

"Bella?"

"Ah!" Bellatrix jumped, screaming. She turned, it was only Rodolphus.

"Are you alright, dear?" he asked, trying to reach out to hold her hand. She snatched it away, glaring.

"I'm fine," she looked daggers at him, "go join the others, or something. I'm going to look outside."

Looking hurt, Rodolphus turned away and went.

Bellatrix marched away in the opposite direction, back through the door and elbowed her way back through the crowds. This time, when they insulted her, she threw some back.

"And the same to you, madam!" she yelled, "I hope you get them same disease your mother obviously did to have such an ugly child! Have you got anything to say, sir? No? Good, keep it that way."

She spotted a cluster of tents just behind the main one, so she headed in that direction. Most of them were empty, thank Merlin.

She got to the one in the middle. Outside there was a sign.

"Hans Hermann"

"This is it," she said to herself. She went to the door, but someone was already walking out. She looked up, to her worst nightmare.

"Is zat you, Bellatrix Lestrange?" the clown smiled, white face yellowing his teeth, clothes oversized and baggy. The clown thrust his hand out for her to shake, "I'm Hans Hermann. I believe you and some ozers ver planning to meet me, so I could join your cause?"

Bellatrix was petrified. Her eyes only saw a white gloved hand reach out for her. She heard someone screech, only half way through realising it was coming from her.

"Madam Lestrange?" the terrifying man – if that's what he was – asked, stepping forward, "you do not...how do you say...look very well?"

Bellatrix staggered backwards. The last thing she remembered of that day was the ground hurtling towards her faster than she would have liked.


	15. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

The Death Eaters sat dejectedly round the table. Not one of them was speaking to any of the others, all thanks to the Writer. They all glanced at each other occasionally in complete silence.

"I believe it is time to go recruiting again, my Lord," Yaxley broke the silence, "we cannot sit here forever."

"And have another fiasco like last time?" Lucius spoke up, staring pointedly at Bellatrix, "losing a capable wizard thanks to Miss Curled-Up-On-The-Grass-Heaving-And-Sobbing, here?"

Greyback burst out laughing, humming a circus theme. Bellatrix pulled a face, folding her arms defensively.

"That's rich, coming from the likes of _you_," she hissed, "congratulations are in order, by the way. You each have twenty thousand "hits" on something called a "YouTube"!"

The Death Eaters all leapt out of their seats, each wand raised to fire on someone.

"Silence!" Voldemort barked, trying to restore order.

"Oh, shut it, Snake Boy!" they all cried, "why should we take commands from someone who listens to _Shania Twain_, for Merlin's sake?"

That did it. All Hell broke loose. Jets of light were flung from every corner of the room, bouncing off walls and leaving burns and cracks in the floor. Everyone duelled with everyone else, except for Pettigrew, who had seen it as a perfect moment to come out by wrapping his arms around Lucius' torso and refusing to be prised off. Lucius dragged him around the room, ducking and diving as the spells got closer.

"Let go of me!" he bellowed at Pettigrew.

"No, I refuse!" Pettigrew smiled up at him, blinking his eyes, trying to make them look big, "I love you!"

Nobody had seen Severus Snape calmly get up from his seat and leave.

Meanwhile, in an office at an undisclosed location, the Writer and two of her friends, Charlotte and Marita, had raised glasses of Firewhiskey in a toast.

"To memories! Happy, sad, funny...as long as the funny ones are embarrassing, and not our own, of course...cheers!"

The glasses clinked together and they downed the drink.

"What have you got planned next?" Charlotte relaxed back in her chair, setting her glass on the desk.

"I don't know, I guess it should be up to the readers to tell me what they want. After all, it's them reading it, not me."

"Can we make suggestions?" Marita asked.

"Of course, fire away..." the Writer gestured for them to proceed, when there was a knock at the door. The Writer turned, "come in!"

Severus Snape's hooked nose and shoulder length black hair poked round the door as it opened.

"Am I interrupting anything?" he asked. The Writer waved him inside.

"No, of course not," she smiled, but it wasn't a cheeky grin that she'd shown to the others, "please, come in and have a seat."

Snape stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He took the seat next to Charlotte.

"This is Charlotte and her partner in crime, Marita," the Writer introduced them all, "we were just having a little celebration in light of recent events."

The Writer poured out another three glasses of Firewhiskey, "Would you like to join us?"

"No, thank you," Snape leaned forward in the chair, "I actually only came to ask a favour."

"Why, I'm flattered," the Writer sat back, "what favour would this be, then?"

Snape paused, as though figuring out what to say, "How much would you be willing to sell the memories to me – I of course mean the Order – for?"

The Writer thought about it, tapping her chin.

"Let's haggle," she grinned, speaking at last.

* * *

><p><strong>And that's a wrap, ladies and gentlemen! Goodnight, that was our show!<strong>

**Tell me your thoughts in the comments! Until next time (with hopefully more ideas), this is Kassandra Lorelei signing off.**


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